Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes
by V. Thomas
Summary: The Doctor doesn't understand why Verity Swift knows so much about him and he intends to find out. Her novels are thinly veiled excerpts of adventures in the TARDIS that could only be written by someone who has traveled with him, but he knows he's never met a Verity Swift before in his life. Now that he knows her, though, there's much more to be learned than he first imagined.
1. The Mad Man and the Blue Box

**It's been a long while, but I've finally come back. I actually have some fanfiction for you guys that I can post on a decently regular schedule. This will be the first, and I'll try to post at the beginning of the week for the next two or three weeks. Anyways, enjoy the first chapter of "Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes."**

**Brief Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who and don't claim to. Verity Swift is my original character, though.**

* * *

The Doctor didn't know what to expect when he knocked on Verity Swift's door. True, he knew quite a bit about her (she was almost forty, married, mother of one, and a best-selling novelist), but he didn't know enough. He didn't know if she would be kind to the stranger on her doorstep. He didn't know if she'd have anything to say about the TARDIS, which was resting out on the lawn. He didn't know if she was quiet or energetic or even irritable.

He didn't know if she would recognize him.

Fingering the somewhat beaten book in his pocket, the Doctor raised a hand to try the bell just as the locks clicked. Immediately he lowered his arm and did his best to appear friendly as the door was opened just a tad. A bright blue eye studied him intently before fixing on something over his shoulder and widening greatly. The door was then flung wide and the Doctor found himself wrapped in a bone-crushing hug.

He now knew that Verity Swift was quite strong for both her growing age and petite stature.

"Doctor!" she trilled, releasing him. He resisted the urge to dust off his jacket, not accustomed to being greeted so...explosively.

"Verity." The sound of her name was foreign to him; he'd not actually said it aloud before and was convinced that the authoress would realize this somehow and take offense. Surprisingly she just took his arm and tugged him over the threshold, smiling all the while.

"You look different," she remarked quite calmly. "Different than when I met you and different than when I left."

Taking in the smallness of Verity's house, which was no more than a cozy cottage, the Doctor replied. "I've—"

"Not _you have_," she interrupted. There was a pause filled with a thousand questions. "_You will_. You will regenerate."

The Doctor said nothing as he freed himself from her grip and wandered into the dining room. Earthy tones awaited him on all sides. The walls were a pleasant shade of green not unlike an olive, and a great deal of the trim was a simple cream color. In the center of the room, atop the oaken dining table, was a glass vase filled with wildflowers in purples and blues and whites. He shortly came to discover that they were the source of the sweet scent wafting through the room and twirled one blossom in his fingers before replacing it and dabbing at the water he'd accidentally flicked onto the tablecloth.

"I'm sorry," Verity murmured from the doorway. "You don't get it yet, do you? How I wrote my science fiction novels, how I know about you, your regenerating, the TARDIS outside?" She sighed and dropped her thin frame into the chair at the head of the table, making the cushion beneath her let out an exhausted puff of air.

"Just started thinking about it recently," the Doctor admitted, easing into the chair on Verity's right. Withdrawing the book from his coat pocket, he slid it across the tabletop in her direction. "Haven't thought much, but I think you know things you shouldn't."

Verity examined the torn cover and dog-eared pages; the corners of her lips turned up as she passed the book back. "_Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes_. Beaten up. Well read, much loved."

"But beyond what you should know," the Doctor insisted warily.

"Think about it," Verity urged him. "It's quite simple, really."

And so the pair stared at one another, the Doctor thinking and Verity smiling wistfully. The silence weighed heavily on the Time Lord as he searched for a solution, and he avoided his companion's eyes. She'd written about him, about the Time Lords, about the Daleks. There were mentions of his beloved TARDIS and subtle tributes to the memory of Gallifrey. Verity knew so very much about him and had hidden it all in a novel. She was armed with incredible amounts of information and yet the Doctor was not.

"Oh," he finally muttered after much deliberation. "Oh!"

"Do you get it?" Verity gave a soft laugh. "You're always traveling through time, but you didn't even consider it until now. I can tell."

"You traveled with me when you were younger and I'll travel with you after I regenerate again," the Doctor reasoned, leaning back in his chair. "That easy."

"That easy," echoed Verity.

For a while they simply absorbed each other's presence. Verity drank in every detail about the man before her, and he did the very same. The Doctor took in her dark hair and graying roots, her warm blue eyes, her small build. He tipped his head slightly, studying the way the woman before him held herself. Her chin was always up, her forearms resting casually on the table. She leaned forward a little with obvious interest, and her shoulders titled inward from too many hours slouched over a desk, penning wild adventures. Once in a while, she'd lift a slender hand to push her hair back behind her ears.

"So..." he mumbled, trying the fill the silence. "Er, you're married, right? Where's your husband?" Part of the Doctor prayed that he didn't seem nosy or even strange. The last thing he wanted was to be unceremoniously shoved out of the cottage for asking questions he shouldn't have even considered, let alone voiced.

"He's with our daughter on a camping trip. Gracie wanted some daddy-daughter time," Verity explained, unperturbed and straightening in her seat. A broad smile flew to her face. "She's got Jack wrapped around her little finger. He'd do anything for her."

"I see. That's...nice." The Doctor caught sight of a photo hanging on the opposite wall. Looking closely, he saw that it was of Verity twirling around a flower garden, hand-in-hand with a toddler who could only be her daughter. The curly black hair, the slim face, the open smile... They mirrored one another perfectly.

"Victoria Grace. I named her after my best friend. Couldn't bring myself to call her Tori, though, so I call her by her middle name," the authoress confessed, wiping something away from the corner of her eye. She sniffed once and looked down at her hands, now folded.

"Tori?" the Doctor inquired.

"Like I said, my best friend. She...died young. Far too young." And that was the end of that discussion. Neither Verity nor the Doctor spoke of Tori again and they left Verity's family out of the picture. Instead, they slowly moved on to a conversation about her work and his adventures. As time flew by, the Doctor grew more comfortable with the odd woman who knew so much about him. In turn, Verity began to ask more questions than she answered, eyes shining with girlish curiosity.

"Tell me more about Raxacoricofallapatorius!" she eventually demanded, rising from her chair to turn on the light overhead. The Doctor blinked at her, dumbfounded.

"Raxacoricofallapatorius?"

"Raxacoricofallapatorius. Surprised I can say it? I never forgot."

Verity and the Doctor swapped stories until the stars came out and the living room sofa became more appealing than the stiff dining room chairs. The Doctor settled into the recliner while Verity curled up at one end of the couch and from there they chattered away, staring into the night through the soaring windows that seemed to be the crowning glory and only display of wealth in the cottage. By the light of a lamp, the two took turns naming off the little lights in the sky. When they tired of that, Verity began to rummage through the drawer of the side-table to her right.

"Aha!" she chirped. Sitting upright once again, she revealed a tattered green notebook and a chewed-upon pen resting in her lap. "This is my writer's notebook. I put down all of our adventures in here and add to it whenever I get a new idea."

"May I see?" the Doctor asked, holding out a hand. To his surprise, Verity flipped the journal open, jotted something down, and stashed it away once again.

"Not today," she replied with a wink. For a moment, she stared at the Doctor, and he held her gaze with much less reservation than he had at the door. Still he found himself on his feet and glancing toward the hallway.

"Suppose I'll be going now." He shrugged, unable to justify the action.

"Come back some time?" She tugged a blanket down from the top of the sofa and draped it over her legs.

"Sure, sure," he quickly agreed. "Um, bye, Verity." He continued to feel that there was a distance between them in spite of all they had and would share, and he could think of no way to get past it.

"Bye, Doctor... And before I forget, check the shelf in the hall. The novels there belong to you. All four."

"I will." Then he left the room, hurried down the hall, and collected the four books before making a beeline for the TARDIS. It wasn't until he had scampered across the lawn and found himself safely inside his ship that he peered at the titles Verity had given (returned?) to him. As he pulled the proper levers and spun the proper gears, he learned three of the novels were murder mysteries he hadn't heard of but would be likely to read at some point. The fourth book was something entirely different.

"_Living Before Dying_," he murmured to himself, setting the books down beside the TARDIS's rattling center console. Brow furrowed, he turned it over to read the synopsis and observed that it was the sort of novel he'd pass on to a hopeless romantic and _not_ the sort of novel he himself would read.

"Olivia Trotter has been given six months to live," he read aloud, eyeing it skeptically. Moving along and finished the summary, he learned that Olivia Trotter wanted more than to just _survive_ six months; she wanted to do anything and everything. She wanted to live.

Shaking his head, he let the book fall to the floor with its fellows. Picturing Verity Swift devouring each word of a murder mystery was a simple task. Grim tales filled with intrigue fit the image the Doctor had of the woman. Romantic journeys filled with drama and self-exploration clashed horribly with those chilling stories and almost made him cringe.

The Doctor couldn't explain Verity's interest in _Living Before Dying_ and cast the thought away, pressing buttons and pulling levers to send his wonderful spaceship even farther into the universe.

He'd pursue the matter some other time.


	2. A Letter for the Mad Man

The Doctor didn't quite understand what drew him back to the countryside a second time. He hadn't planned to visit Verity Swift until he'd traveled with her, until he understood how they met. At this point, he had regenerated, so he assumed their meeting would occur soon. However, no one named Verity Swift had waltzed into the TARDIS or caused him enough trouble to make him take notice, and he was beginning to wonder, beginning to worry.

That, he realized, must have been why he and the TARDIS returned to Verity's front yard.

Stepping out into the sunlight after landing, the first thing that struck the Doctor as odd was the dark procession of cars vanishing down the dusty road. He squinted at them for moment, but his curiosity didn't last long and he trotted to the door, knocking sharply.

"Verity?" he called out when the rhythmic hammering brought no one. Still not a sound could be heard beyond the door, and the Doctor felt a peculiar sense of coldness settle over him. Without bothering with the bell, he impulsively slipped the sonic screwdriver from within his coat and held to the door handle. It hummed briefly before the lock clicked.

Tentatively turning the doorknob, the Doctor ducked into Verity's home. Immediately he felt a sense of dread coil around his hearts. There wasn't a light on or a sound being made. Everything was unnaturally still.

"Verity?" he tried again. The only reply was stubborn silence and the Doctor padded down the hall, noting the absence of photos. Last time he had been in the Swift home, the cheery corridor had been proudly decorated with pictures and newspaper articles that had overflowed with happiness. Now the walls were almost empty except for a photograph of little Gracie laughing in the garden.

Treading lightly on the wooden floors to enter the dining room, slinking through the kitchen, and coming to a halt in the living room, the Doctor came to the conclusion that no one was home. For a moment he considered leaving and returning at another time, but then his eyes fell on the mahogany end table. Recalling his last visit, he made his way to it and slid the drawer out. Inside was a thick notebook with a battered, tea-stained cover. As he drew it out and flipped through the pages, he realized that among the minuscule notes and bullet points there were dates. Verity must have made note of each day she opened the journal.

The Doctor didn't really absorb the words penned on each line. Instead, he skimmed through, searching for the date of his previous stay.

"The fourth, sixth, seventh...ninth?" That couldn't be right. He distinctly remembered stopping by on the eight of January, six months past; he'd double-checked the date when he landed the TARDIS that very first time.

Glancing at the dates on each page, he realized that there was no entry for January eighth. Verity hadn't written a thing that night. She'd be fooling around. She'd made him curious.

She'd guaranteed he'd come back.

"Clever," he muttered, now searching for the most recent entry. Finding it at the back of the journal, he checked the date and discovered that there was an item from roughly a week prior. At the top of the page were two words that quickened his pulse.

_DEAR DOCTOR,_

Had Verity known he would come? Part of him doubted it, because that meant he would have to share the date of his arrival with her and risk changing their pasts and futures. A different side of him felt that it was entirely conceivable that the novelist had known. Somehow, she had been aware. Just another mystery surrounding her.

Reluctant to read the letter, the Doctor nearly shut the notebook. The curiosity bubbling up inside of him won out, though.

_DEAR DOCTOR,_

_I'm sure you'll find this notebook eventually, so I wanted to leave a little message for you: You can read anything in this notebook now. I've scratched out and rewritten anything that might affect your future. Everything in here is the truth, just covered in lots of fiction. To find out what will happen, I think you'll need to do a lot of puzzling, and while you're off saving the universe, I don't think you've got much time for that._

_I also want you to know that I really liked those books I gave back to you when you dropped in. Please make sure to recommend them to me when you meet me. The murder-mysteries were phenomenal, and the other novel... Be sure that I get that one. Don't tell me about it, but put it somewhere I'll see it. I remember picking it up on a whim and I'm glad I did. There's a lot to be learned about how to really live from _Living Before Dying_. The years don't count. It's what you do with the years that really makes a life, and I have to say that I think I've done a lot with my years. I've lived a lot._

_I'd like to add one more thing: you're fantastic. Absolutely fantastic._

At this, the Doctor paused, reread that single line, and smiled to himself. "Fantastic? I suppose that's not bad at all." Then he pressed on, nearing the end of the page where Verity's neat signature lounged.

_All the time we spent together inspired my books. Even though I've published seven now, there's still so much more to pen, so much more to relive. I've planned eight more books, you know. Someday, I hope you read every single one, because you're the whole reason I wrote them. I wrote them because you drove an alien out of my best friend's stove and took me across time and space, took me out of my bookshop and into the universe. Thank you, Doctor. _

_ Love, Verity_

Setting the notebook down, the Doctor found himself experiencing a case of what he knew most humans called "warm fuzzies." It certainly wasn't an unpleasant feeling and he decided that he would tear the page from the journal and keep it with him. For the warm fuzzies.

Since no one was home and he had little left to do, the Doctor turned to leave. At that moment, though, a radio clock burst to life and a broadcast blared down the hall and into the living room, shattering the calm. The Doctor nearly leaped out of his skin, hearts racing, and whirled around in search of the clock. He found it after darting down the hall and into what appeared to be the master bedroom. The radio continued to babble from beside the bed, presumably for someone supposed to be working a night shift, before the sonic screwdriver silenced it. However, it hadn't been quieted soon enough. Two words had caught the Doctor's attention.

_Verity Swift._

Pointing the screwdriver at the radio again, he allowed it to carry on.

"Today's a fine day, especially for July, but the world is in mourning," the radio host declared somberly. The Doctor leaned closer to the clock, screwdriver in one hand, folded paper in the other.

"Two days ago, there was a brutal wreck involving a drunk driver and a literary legend. Neither driver survived the crash and wreckage from both vehicles is still being removed from the site. Today, the funeral procession of science-fiction icon Verity Swift passed that very location. The location of her death."

The Doctor's stomach churned violently and he manually turned the dial to shut the radio off. Collapsing on the edge of the bed, color draining from his face, he stared down at the letter in his hand. Against his will, his fingers trembled and the screwdriver nearly tumbled to the carpeted floor. Now he knew why the house was empty, why the walls were bare. He understood why the cars had trickled down the road as he arrived, and grasped the reason for the unshakable silence. Everything was in mourning. Every last thing on Earth was hurting, grieving, even the lonely Time Lord, and it was all because of one thing.

Verity Swift was dead.


	3. A Surprise in the Blue Box

The Doctor finally found Verity in a little bookshop in Cardiff and then proceeded to oust an alien making itself at home in her refrigerator. Amid all the confusion and excitement of dismantling the appliance and chasing the extraterrestrial, something came to be shared between the two. At first it was difficult to identify, but the Doctor eventually found himself able to name the sensation developing.

Quite simply, it was a friendship.

While the relationship between the Doctor and Verity in her older years seemed awkward and rocky, this was far more easy, far more fluid. He'd invited her to travel with him after driving that cold-loving alien away, and she'd been hesitant. When he coaxed her into the TARDIS, though, she'd immediately been overcome by awe at the vastness within the blue police box. As she tottered in circles to take in every last detail, the wonderful, _fantastic_ ship zipped through deep space, through infinite time, its occupants beaming with sheer delight. And when the doors opened and Verity saw a star meeting its end in an enchantingly brilliant manner, she turned to the Doctor and demanded to travel with him. There was no way he could possibly refuse and soon they were officially Doctor and companion, exploring the universe and leaving more than enough chaos in their wake.

After one particularly dangerous escapade where both the Time Lord and Verity were almost sacrificed to a rather shapeless boulder with teeth, the Doctor decided that there was something he needed to show his new charge that wouldn't leave her life hanging in the balance.

"This way," he told her once the TARDIS was safely on its way to wherever and whenever. Eyes brightening, she eagerly took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Something new?" she inquired as they scampered deeper into the TARDIS. The Doctor flashed an impish grin over his shoulder before tugging her around a corner and through two doors.

"Something you'll like," he promised. "Something I know you'll like!" Just as the words left his mouth, he skidded to a halt before an enormous door and threw an arm out to prevent Verity from crashing into it. Laughter burst from her as she plowed into him, but no one was hurt.

"Ready?"

"Of course I am!" she replied, putting her hands on her hips. "When am I not?"

"When you're about to be fed to a stone blob," he countered.

"That was different." Verity gave the Doctor a rough nudge before proudly lifting her nose in the air. "That was much different."

"If you say so," the Time Lord retorted, rubbing his arm where he'd been speared by her elbow. Then he twisted the handle and let the door swing inward. A warming golden glow came from within the room, provided by ornate desk lamps, and it prevented Verity from immediately seeing what stood before her so grandly. Blinking rapidly, she allowed herself a moment to adjust to the lighting before freezing in the center of the room. Then she gasped, hands flying to cover her mouth, and hopped up and down with muffled squeals escaping between her fingers.

Turning back to the Doctor, she beamed a smile too wide to be hidden by her hands and rushed at him to capture him in a hug. "This is the biggest library I've ever seen!" she cried before skipping over to the nearest shelf and skimming over the titles. Then she flew to the shelf across the room, fingers dancing across the leather-bound spines and flimsy covers. Each step she took caused a puff of dust to explode from the carpet, but she ignored it in favor of discovering anything and everything on the shelves.

"You like it."

"I love it!" Verity replied, plucking a book from the shelf just above her head and peering at the inside of the jacket. Nose wrinkling, she banished it to its place once again and moved on to yet another shelf. Like a butterfly in the breeze, she flitted between shelves with nothing on her face but pure joy and nothing in her step but ecstatic, wild abandon.

"I could live here," she declared as she read an excerpt from an Alaxarian novel. Snapping the cover shut, she raised her eyebrows at the Doctor. "I really could."

He chuckled and glanced over at the shelf to his right, one of the titles catching his eye; he'd forgotten he owned it. Picking it off the shelf, he looked back to Verity. "I don't doubt it," he assured her.

And that was when she fairly screamed.

"What is it?" the Doctor demanded, rushing over to her and taking her arm. Her eyes had grown to the size of saucers and she had clapped her hands over her mouth again. The Time Lord looked at the shelf in front of him, desperately searching for whatever could have startled her so.

"Look!" she squealed, jabbing her finger at a hardcover novel directly level with her eyes. "_Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes _by Verity Swift! That's me. Me!" Skipping in a quick circle, she ripped the book from the shelf only to shove it back into place and shut her eyes.

"I'm not looking. I'll write it when I write it," she promised somberly, and the Doctor gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze at this.

"Good idea, not peeking ahead," he praised her. "But you can at least look at the spine of it. Won't be the end of the world."

Verity cracked one eye open. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. When am I not?"

"When you're about to be fed to a stone blob," she snickered, fingers continually wandering back to _Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes_. Even though she came close to sticking her nose in between the covers more than once, she held true to her vow and didn't read even the summary within the book's jacket. Instead, she forced herself away from the shelf to go look for something else that wouldn't tempt her nearly as much as her own work.

Inspecting the shelf of murder-mysteries, a question slipped from her. "How many?"

"How many what?" the Doctor responded quizzically, settling into a somewhat dusty leather recliner. It creaked and popped when he put up the footrest, but it held. Verity watched him over her shoulder.

"How many books do I publish?" she elaborated, prying one dry page from the next to scroll down the table of contents.

The Doctor chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. Would it be prudent to share what she was to accomplish? He could divulge some information without altering her future, but how much was too much?

"Quite a few," was the affectionate response he settled on. The delight radiating from Verity told him he'd gauged his reply perfectly. She'd have the heart to get started on her career without being discouraged by what she would or wouldn't manage to create.

"What are some of the others called?"

"I can't tell you everything!" the Doctor protested, leaning back into the leather. It was still rather comfortable after so many years of disuse.

"Tell me one, then!"

And so the Time Lord caved, adjusting his jacket and settling into his chair for an explanation.

"There is an odd one," he began thoughtfully. "You wanted to call it _The Forgotten_. You scrapped the title after a while. Not only did it seem bland and unmemorable, but you had an even better idea. Instead of giving it some astounding title that made sense only halfway through the book, you nixed the title entirely."

"Why would I do that?" Verity tipped her head, brows furrowing. "Doesn't make sense."

The Doctor arched his eyebrows at her and smirked. "Oh, but it does. You see, you left a title off because of the creatures in the book. Who remembers them? Not your main character. Not the side characters. Not even the creatures themselves. They see each other and simply forget. Only your readers would remember those _things_. So instead of calling it _The Forgotten_, you left the title off and allowed the readers to call it whatever they liked...if they chose to remember," he finished with a cryptic wink. Verity shot him a puzzled look and held the book in her hands against her chest.

"So...I'm going to write a full novel about creatures that people can't remember?"

"Exactly."

Verity's lips turned up at the corners. "Brilliant," she declared. "Absolutely brilliant."

Suddenly, the Doctor leaped from the chair and clapped his hands together. "Want do you want to read?" The novelist-to-be painted her face with blank expression, hesitantly sliding the book in her hands back into its proper place with a low "um..."

"I can get some books for you to borrow," he went on. "Historical? Alien? Mystery?"

"Murder-mystery!" she cried. "And alien!"

Without waiting a moment more, the Doctor vanished between shelves, jacket flapping against his body. He knew three alien murder-mysteries that Verity would cherish for years to come. All he needed to do was find them in the labyrinth that was the TARDIS's library; that took a good ten minutes of hunting through shelves and desks and even under the cushions of a sagging sofa. Twice, he ventured onto the soaring balconies just to double-check that he hadn't misplaced the novels he was thinking of. Eventually he discovered three murder-mysteries stacked in a dim alcove on the far wall of the first floor; they were covered in a thin layer of dust. Scooping them up, he darted back to the entrance where Verity was still waiting for his return.

"Here," he said, lowering the books into her outstretched arms. "One from Sto, one from Barcelona—the planet, not the city—and one from Raxacoricofallapatorius."

"Raxa... Raxa what?" Verity stammered.

"Raxacoricofallapatorius," the Time Lord repeated slowly.

"Raxacorico...fallapatorius?"

"Yes! That's it!" Beaming, the Doctor nodded his approval. Then he stood back and watched as Verity's eyes flew over the summaries, rather bemused by the way his companion threw her everything into simply reading the pieces in her hands. What was she like when she was writing? Did she have that same fervor present when the tales she held were her own? He imagined she would carry a similar brand of enthusiasm with her no matter what she was involving herself in and let his mind wander to _Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes_. It would have been impossible for Verity to write that incredible, fantastic mess in a way that made sense if she hadn't hurled herself into the task completely.

Glancing at that whimsical, wonderful novel, the Doctor suppressed a sigh. It was one of seven that would hit the shelves, but there were still eight more withering away in a raggedy notebook that would forever smell of tea. The temptation to finish them in Verity's place was infuriatingly strong, but he refrained from even glancing inside of the journal; to complete her tales for her was a sure way to break his hearts. How was he supposed to know the endings she had in mind and how could he possibly presume to weave half the tale she was able to weave? Simply considering the idea of stepping into her shoes had become blasphemous the moment he found her in the book shop.

Forcibly pushing the idea from his mind, the Doctor planted a smile on his face just as Verity tucked a fourth book into the pile already in her arms. He knew exactly what she had chosen, but held any comments to himself.

"I can't wait to start reading these," she informed him sincerely, bouncing the books a tad to adjust her grip. Her hair fell into her face as she shifted and she blew out a short puff of air to send it away.

"I'm glad," the Time Lord replied, keeping the empty smile in place as he patted Verity's shoulder. Those eight ideas reared up inside of him once again, clamoring to escape, to be known by the one who would conceive them eventually. Eight stories desperate to be told, eight thoughts screaming to be heard, eight adventures dying to be penned.

But the Doctor refused to let anything change and, with considerable effort, began to steer Verity from the library. "Head back to the console; I'll be there in a moment."

"Okay." Not surprisingly, she had already buried her nose in the Raxacoricofallapatorian novel and adopted a complacent air. Ambling out with a serene expression on her face, she left the Doctor to stare at the vast library and listen to the faint hum of the TARDIS.

Crossing the room to lean against one of the leather recliners, he let out a heavy sigh. He'd successfully kept the unfinished novels a secret. What would come of it, though? Would Verity's life play out as he knew it, ending in tragedy, or would giving her the knowledge of what was to come change things for the better? The Time Lord shook his head and cast a baleful glance at _Of Mad Men and Blue Boxes_ for the final time. It was Verity's beginning, the spark that set off her career. It was the crowning glory of one of Earth's most celebrated novelists.

It was also the last thing she would ever share with him before it was all too late.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled dolefully, slumping down into the chair. He put his head in his hands and cursed his stubbornness, his insistence that certain events must remain unaltered. That principle and the way he adhered to it would cost him a companion; nothing could be worse than the knowledge that her life was quite possibly in his hands even after they ceased traveling the universe together.

No, that wasn't true. The worst thing wasn't that he'd kept secrets from her. It wasn't that he may have sealed her fate one way or another. The worst thing was that he knew he wouldn't do anything to stop it.

"I'm sorry, Verity. It's all fixed."


End file.
